


Dipped in Wind and Blood

by althaea



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/althaea/pseuds/althaea
Summary: Untold depictions of old myths OR Zephyrus falls for the Sun, not the suns in the Spartan prince's eyes.





	Dipped in Wind and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> im 67% sure this is thrash. but my cousin, whom i dearly [word i cannot say because she might find this] said this was good, and a friend of mine apparently cried because of this. i hope it doesnt mean it was so bad that it reduced her to tears. anyway enjoy

There is a story of how long before Zeus, the king of gods, ruled over the heavens and Olympus, the skies were left in the care of the four winds. Their tempers ran wild, and the blasts directed at the earth were rarely curbed. Because of this, it wasn’t far to predict that the world would be torn to pieces under their reign. Soon, the four winds were under the dominion of Zeus, caged and subdued, and sent to distant lands to perform tasks none of them particularly liked.  
  
Zephyrus was given the western shores which glowed with the setting sun, and it was he who acted as the conciliator between the living and the dead, breathing vivacity into the barren lands left from winter and sprouting life all over.  
  
It was a dull job but the god, who once had only air for a body, appreciated the relief from the never-ending clashes with his brothers.  
  
With time, from the once wild and rebellious wind deity now bloomed a kind being.  
  
He became the father of flowers with his mere breath flourishing buds far and wide. Sometimes they were entangled between his hair and skin, but more often than not the blossoms were left behind in the women and men he invited to his bed. It was an act of possession that few dared to cross for even the gentlest of winds had the ability to draw air from the throats of gods lastingly.  
  
Mortals, though, had shorter memories, and forgave and forgot.  
  
As the bringer of the warm west wind, Zephyrus was seen by those poor souls as a fair being. With his golden windswept curls, breath which imbues a slowly rousing spring with warm rains, the benevolence gleaming in his smile – how could they not think him gentle?  
  
But Zephyrus was a god of wind, and wind riots.  
  
Wind kisses the mouths of women and men, stealing their breath in a glance and keeping it. Wind is the blood-stint in the distant sky before it’s too late and dust forms blinding and suffocating walls around innocent and curious souls. Wind flits from ally to lover to foe to brother – reckless and cruel in the residual emptiness. Wind epitomises Zephyrus and Zephyrus is the symbol for wind, yet one does not stand for the other.  
  
Wind holds no vices, no virtues, but its gods hold weak points the same as those of the titans and the mortals and the gods. Only one trait exists, though, that they all share: love. Zephyrus was born the son of the night-sky and the stars and the morning, one of the third generation. He belonged with the Olympians and the heavens and his parents, and because of this all their flaws were tripled in him.  
  
Thus, it comes as no surprise that wind gods are just as careless with their own hearts as they are with others.  
  
The prince of Sparta was a divine hero, beautiful in his dark eyes and the curves of his cheeks. His story, though, was destined for tragedy like so many others. While the plans for his marriage to a princess were being argued over, the prince spent his days with another – the god of light. Apollo was unlike any man he had met before. The god depicted the ideal most of his friends wished to be, and yet he was vain and wise and honourable. It was simple to befriend Apollo when the latter acted so humane.  
  
The prince was so mesmerised by the god, that he forgot how easily they gave their hearts to mortals and expected their own in exchange, no matter how bloody and torn from their torso it may be. Though, with the sun as his symbol, it wasn’t a wonder that Apollo shone so bright and strong that in the end the prince wasn’t the only one who fell victim to that.  
  
One day, the two were out practising the art of discus.  
  
The bleakness of the late winter still hung in the nature, but with various options beginning from sharing a bed to simply being in Apollo’s vicinity, it wasn’t much of a bother.  
Slowly time passed until they could smell the nearing humidity. It was a clear sign of Zephyrus, but only the other god was aware of that.  
  
Around them, the small green blossoms gradually came into bud until all of a sudden, their dreary field was thriving and lush. It fascinated the prince. Was it the work of another god – yes. Was it Demeter or Persephone – no, but they might be around. Who was it then – Zephyrus. Who is he – the Western Wind. Is he important – Demeter and Persephone are more so.  
  
The wind, which had until then blown warmly throughout the meadow, cooled to a weather belonging to winter rather than spring. In the skies, the beautiful blue of Apollo’s eyes morphed into dark grey hues. A storm was forming right over their heads.  
  
For all his mortal vanity, the prince soon realised the danger and wished to leave. His lover only laughed. it was only Zephyrus up to his old tricks again. The chortles warmed the prince’s skin and mind until he was ready to start practising the discus-throw once more. This time, however, he wanted to prove his gust to be able to share a bed and heart with one of the gods, and ran after the disc to return it to Apollo.  
  
It was already forgotten how wind rebels and chokes and is a snake who loves to coil around others' throats too much.  
  
The disc flew true and straight as is proper from the hands of a god. It was just unfortunate that the target of it was not grass but the prince’s head. Silence reigned in the field. The more vivid of the two gods stood there, grief overcoming his reflexes. Then, alarm filled his heart, and he dashed to the limp body lying in grass, which was gaining shades of ruddy from the blood.  
  
His hands cradled the paling cheeks of the prince. The faint shine of his healing brought a yellow gleam to the body which was bleeding out fast, but it was too late – even for a god. This was something he had not foreseen in any of his prophesies, if anything, Apollo was supposed to make his lover a god, to be his spouse in the heavens.  
  
And now, he was only a corpse in his hands.  
  
How could this have happened? Whose fault was this? Was this the work of another mortal, cursing his prince from petty problems or was it from the hands of one of his fellow gods, wishing to meddle in his business, or merely jealous? Was this instead a fault of his own hand?  
  
No, this could not be. Apollo could not let his lover just leave for the world of the dead. If it was possible, he would have given up his immortality for only the chance that his prince might live. But his uncle did not grant such things easily nor did he return souls to their world. It might be simpler to die himself. He could not live with this pain, without him. The prince made his days shine and gain colours even Apollo had not noticed before. It had been a wondrous tale until it ended on this field in blood and wind and–  
Wind.  
  
The grass of the meadow was still sashaying to an unknown beat, but it still signified that the god was hanging about. Why was he still there? And then, it hit him. The storm had formed mere moments before his prince was hit with the disc. Apollo rarely missed, but when he did, it was due to the interference of another god.  
  
Utter rage, which had been concealed within his grief, now unravelled fully and was given free rein to gladly murder the other deity. Though, Zephyrus was the son of titans, he was an Olympian and thus much more powerful than a simple wind god. That was what he was – wind, right? Then, shouldn’t he be just that, only an unleashed storm, simple air, a god without another form?  
  
At those realisations, Apollo couldn’t hold back his power any longer and the lustre of the sun headed straight towards the middle of the tempest. With only a touch, the human form of the god was no more.  
  
His revenge was had.  
  
Slowly, the Olympian lowered back onto the ground, his blue eyes still sparking the lightning he had inherited.  
  
In the rise of his rage, Apollo had forgot about preserving the body of his prince, and now the corpse was in pieces and thrown about the field. His soul was already under the earth, though, heading to his uncle. He could feel it. The tears came easier than before, and his fists punched at the dirt. Silently, he begged, why. If only his prince could be with him, if only his Hyacinthus could be by his side were it not for, he snarled, that wind god.  
  
Then he remembered. The other was also called the father of spring flowers, and what could be a worse insult than having to care for a flower symbolising the man he had killed?  
  
Thus was born the hyacinth - of wind, revenge, and the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone has read this before, its because i published this some time ago and deleted it cause i didnt like it lmao


End file.
